Sitting in Chaloooski’s coffee shop in Kaisertown, Malinchowski groused, “That book was so ponderous. It was sad that his parents died and he had to raise his brother, but it just went on and on and on. Hello—get a freaking editor. Also, I’m sorry no one showed up to your mom’s funeral, but jeez, Eggers, the world doesn’t revolve around you. Manage your expectations, buckaroo.”

“Yeah, and that McSweeny’s satire site he runs or founded or whatever the fuck—tell me, how is that funny?” McSlappy asked, befuddled. “Bunch of pretentious, beret-wearing twats from Harvard laughing at their own jokes.”

But the attraction between Malinchowski and McSlappy wasn’t limited to just despising Eggers or his book. They shared a hatred of numerous things: White Claws, pugs, and people who say: Be the change you want to see, and more.

“White Claws, I mean, what the fuck,” Malinchowski scoffed. “What prissy asshole thought that up? Let’s mix almost zero alcohol with soda and sell it to wanna be posers as a style fucking thing. You know who’s cool? The person who thought up whiskey and those Hayburners they sell around here. They’re like 10% alcohol and knock you on your ass.”

Nodding, McSlappy continued, “You know what else sucks—Pugs. They’re little garbage dogs with pushed-in faces and stubby legs. I walk faster than they can run. And what’s with the way they bark? They sound like my grandma when she wakes up in the morning, all phlegmy and out of breath—gross. No offense, Grandma, but forty years of Lucky Strikes did a number on the way you sound, and that baseball mitt of a face you have.” 

Malinchowski then imitated McSlappy’s phlegmy grandmother, and they both laughed. “Your Grandma is so gross, babe. But I bet you never heard nonsense like: Be the change you want to see, coming out of her leathery piehole. When I hear people say that, I wanna choke them out. That’s the change I want to see—them gone from this earth. How about instead of pithy little phrases, you just keep quiet and not be an asshole. Eeezee peezee, right, shitbags?”

Smiling at Malinchowski, a cooing McSlappy says, “You know that stupid song by Whitney Houston— ‘The Greatest Love of All,‘ where she sings about children being our future and the greatest love is with yourself? Well, first off, have you seen today’s little fucking Bluey watching mutant children? They’re all whiny and entitled with their juice boxes, veggie stix,’ and little devices. If they’re the future, let’s get on with it, and say adios to planet Earth. And that second part about the greatest love being with yourself? Don’t get me wrong, I like a good wank as much as the next guy, but the greatest love is not with yourself, or someone with the same values and interests or Hulu account. The greatest love is with someone who hates the same shit as you. Right, babe?”

“You know it, babe.” Malinchowski then leaned in and kissed her boyfriend.

Content with their shared hatred of books, drinks, kids, certain dogs, and more, the couple has no plans to take any further steps in their relationship, saying their present status as haters-together is a dream come true.

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Buffalo, NY—Stacy Langmeyer, a Project Analyst with Catholic Health opened her Facebook account Tuesday morning and found a friend request from Jack Conrad and is unsure if she should accept it. 

At first glance Langmeyer couldn’t quite place Conrad. She asked her husband who he was and he reminded her that she met him at the Brick Oven Bistro on a couple of different occasions—”You know, kind of loud, not much of a filter.” 
A worried look came to Langmeyer’s face, “That guy sitting at the bar who kept talking to us even though we were five tables away?”
“Yeah, him.”
“That was really embarrassing. He kept talking about what a great athlete he was and how all the girls loved him in high school.”
“That’s just Jack. It’s kind of who he is. Don’t be embarrassed.”
“I wasn’t embarrassed for me, I was embarrassed for him.” 

Other Tales of Jack Conrad

Langmeyer’s impulse was just to accept the friend request because she didn’t want to be rude. But she stopped herself. Through years of therapy she learned that it was okay to say no. This wasn’t about what Jack Conrad wanted, but what she wanted. 

With this stiffening of her spine she proceeded to check Conrad’s Facebook profile and newsfeed. On the good side, she liked his politics and that he had a listing of food pantries for people in need during the Coronavirus. She also liked that he had cats. On the bad side, he seemed way into drinking and Jackson Browne. 

A thought then occurred to Langmeyer—what if people look at my profile and see I’m friends with him and think I’m a loser? What if they think I spend my time questioning how empty bottles of wine fit into a recycling bin or that I can’t decide what my favorite hole is at Caz Golf Course even though it’s been my main course since 1983?

She was just about to delete on the friend request, but stopped herself again and thought about all the steps she had taken in therapy to empower herself. Steeling herself she told herself that she wouldn’t make a choice one way or the other based on what others thought. And, furthermore, next time she and her husband were in the Bistro and Conrad was being a loudmouth she was going to yell across the tables and tell him to: “Shut the hell up, you’re embarrassing yourself.”  

Thrilled with her internal deliberations she was just about to hit the confirm tab on the friend request, but again, Conrad’s boasting at the bar flashed through her head and she just couldn’t complete the process. 

Finally, she quietly closed the cover on her laptop still unsure what to do.

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